Dear Mr. Brody by A.M. Johnson

Parker

The drive to my mom’s house in Marietta usually didn’t take me longer than twenty-five minutes. Depending on traffic, I could get there in twenty, but today seemed to drag. It was only ten in the morning, and I was already tired. I’d stayed up too late, which had become my routine over the past six weeks. If I wasn’t at work, or over at Van’s, I was home trying to catch up on my classes. I yawned, trying to keep my eyes focused on the road, the fall foliage burning bright orange and yellow as the car sped by.

“Stop yawning, you’re making me tired.” Marcos leaned forward and turned down the volume on the stereo. “You need me to drive?”

“I’m fine, we’re almost there.”

“Most accidents happen when you’re only a few miles from home.”

I glared at him. “I’m fine.”

“Someone’s cranky today. Maybe if you would man up and deflower the professor already, you’d be a little less irritable.”

“It’s not like that, asshole.” I laughed. “And would you please stop using the word deflower.”

“He’s an ass virgin… it fits. I mean, unless him and his ex-wife used to—”

“Marcos.”

“Calm down,” he said, mumbling something in Spanish under his breath.

“We’re not ready.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the road even though I could feel him staring at me.

“He’s not ready,” he said.

“It’s only been a month.”

“It’s been six weeks. You’ve fucked guys you’ve known for thirty minutes, Park.” He turned in his seat to face me. “You’re over there almost every night.”

“Why are you so concerned about my sex life?” I asked, my aggravation leaking through my half-hearted smirk.

“Jesus.” He held up his hands. “Forget I said a word.”

He turned away and looked out his window. The guilt ate at me. He was nosy and intrusive, but it came from a place of concern. I’d known him long enough to have thought otherwise. He was my mother hen.

“It’s different with him,” I said. His glossy lips twitched, fighting to keep quiet and I smiled. “Say what you want to say.”

“How is it different?” he asked, facing me again. “I swear to God, you never tell me anything anymore. Tell me all the romantic shit, mijo. I need it. My love life is nonexistent. I need to live vicariously through you.”

Laughing, I pulled off the interstate and stopped at the red light. “I don’t need more with him.  I mean, we fuck around, and it’s hot as hell, but I like just spending time with him too. I like being with him in any capacity. It feels easy, Marcos… we click. I don’t need to fuck him to know that.”

Being us was enough.

I liked how Van would always put his head in my lap on the nights we’d watch a movie. And how excited he’d get when Anne brought home art from school, hanging it on his fridge like my mom used to do for me. I’d only hung out with him and his daughter a few times, but each time, I’d gotten to see him without any guards up. When he was with his daughter, I got to see him—just him. And he was beautiful. After the night I’d opened up to him about my assault, something between us had changed. I’d never told anyone besides Marcos about what had happened to me. And I hadn’t planned on telling Van either. At least not that soon. But he had a funny way of getting me to talk about all the things I’d locked up tight, of making me believe I was more than I thought I could be. Especially when it came to my writing, and when he’d kissed me that night, all I’d felt was relief. Relief and fire, and every time I had a chance to be in his orbit, I took it. I took it because I couldn’t stop the pull, that tugging sensation that tied me to him in ways I’d never felt before. I’d spent a lot of time hiding from something serious, but when I looked at him, I thought maybe I’d just been waiting.

“I don’t want to push him, Marcos. Yeah, it’s been a little over a month, but we’re still figuring everything out. And I... I think he’s someone I could see myself ending up with.”

“Like forever?”

“Hell… I don’t know.”

“Aww.” Marcos raised his hand to his heart. “He gives you the butterflies.”

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me.”

“Oh… I’m totally making fun of you.” He laughed when I playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Parker Mills with the heart eyes, I would have never thought.”

“I do not have heart eyes.”

“Marcos, I think he could be the one.” He spoke in a high-pitched voice and batted his lashes. “I like spending time with him.” He cracked up, barely containing his glee, and wiped his fingers under his eyes. “Haven’t even gotten the ass, and you’re whipped.”

“Have you always been this immature?” I asked and chuckled when he nodded.

“Always.” He inhaled, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck off, you love me. I keep you young.”

“I guess.”

“I do have a serious question.”

“That terrifies me.”

“Do you think he’s going to let you top him?” He waggled his brows, and I shook my head.

“That’s your serious question?” I ignored his incredulous look and made a left when the light turned green. “We haven’t really talked about that yet, and I haven’t even stayed an entire night there, man. Taking it slow is okay. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“It is possible for two men to be together and not fuck.”

“I know.” He wrinkled his nose. “To each his own and everything. You do you.”

“I hate you,” I said, smiling when he gave me the middle finger. “I should have left you at home.”

“Your momma loves my ass. Besides, you have no idea how to use a sewing machine.”

“I can’t believe you want to make all the costumes for this play.”

“Why? I get to make clothes and do make-up, it’s basically my dream job. Except for the whole not getting paid thing.”

“You do realize that’s the entire purpose of volunteering… service.”

“Whatever. Pride House is lucky to have me.”

As much as I wanted to tease him about his humble nature, he was kind of right. Every year, near the holidays, the shelter had an increase in their census. The nights were colder during the winter months, and the need for coats and more beds almost doubled. Throughout the year we survived on government funding and charitable donations, but every December, Pride House put on a play to help raise money for the influx during the holidays. The residents and staff all got involved. Everything was handmade or donated. Sponsors usually helped pay for the supplies, but for the most part, we did it all on our own. Maybe it was my relationship with Van, and how we’d met, or maybe it was my love for the book, but I’d offered to write an adaptation of The Lost Boys, and everyone loved the idea. At least we hoped everyone would love it. The new director and his staff were supposed to be here this week. Hopefully, the guy wasn’t a total asshole.

“You should get Van to be one of the sponsors since you both get a hard-on for that book.”

“Horrible idea,” I said and turned onto the long, grass driveway that led up to my mother’s house.

“Why?” He shrugged. “Get his agency to sponsor it. They like books, it makes sense.”

I put the car in park and shut off the engine.  Staring at the small trailer home that had seen better days, I asked, “You don’t think that’s rude of me to ask?”

“No. It’s not like you’re asking Van for money.” He pulled down the visor and opened the mirror. He pressed his lips together and wiped a finger under his eye, removing the faint black smudge from his mascara. “They could probably use it as a tax write-off.”

“Maybe.”

He shut the mirror and stared at me. “If it makes you uncomfortable, then don’t ask him, I was only—”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Parker.” Marcos rested his hand on my shoulder, and I met his gaze. His smile was soft as he said, “He likes you. Not that I’m telling you to capitalize on that. But it’s obvious. I mean, the students in our class are fucking idiots if they can’t see the way that man looks at you. All I’m saying is, I bet he’d want to help you.”

“I don’t know, his boss is always busy. I have a meeting with him this Friday to go over some of my work, and even then, he had to fit me in. But… yeah, maybe you’re right. I could pitch the idea to both of them, then.”

“That could work,” he said. “Or…” He held out his hand. “I could ask him.”

“Hell no.”

“Come on,” he pouted. “You never let me tease him. I’m always on my best behavior. I can be an adult, you know.”

“You can?” I asked and bit back my grin.

“Güey.” He grumbled and opened his door.

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“No… I don’t think you do,” he said and stepped out of the car. He bent down, his arm on the frame. “You think your mom made those cookies I like?”

All traces of his previous annoyance had dissipated. The guy was a whirlwind, but he wouldn’t be Marcos any other way.

She’d made two dozen.

We were in the kitchen going over Marcos’s costume ideas when the oven timer went off.

“I’ll get it,” I said and leaned down to kiss my mom on the cheek.

“Thanks, baby.”

I didn’t understand Marcos’s obsession with these cookies. Oatmeal and raisins, in my opinion, had no business calling themselves a cookie. Grabbing a rag off the counter, I pulled the tray out of the oven. The scent of cinnamon filled the room, and like always, I second-guessed myself thinking I might like them this time. Of course, I wouldn’t. The smell was deceiving as fuck.

“Just set them on the stove, Park. They need to cool,” she said, like she hadn’t told me this a thousand times over the years.

I placed the hot tray on the stove and smiled as I caught her watching me. My mom liked things a certain way, and I couldn’t say I didn’t blame her. Raising two kids on your own had to be hard, setting limits, keeping the status quo. It’s how she survived, how we all did. She had to be two people wrapped in one body. She’d worked as a teacher for most of my life. And when the rest of the teachers took off for the summer, she worked at the local diner for extra cash. She had worked hard for us, but I didn’t truly grasp how much she’d done for us until recently. The situation wasn’t the same, Van was divorced, not a widower, but I could see some similarities between him and my mom. Which I guess might be weird to some, but I found it comforting. Much like this house, Van’s wasn’t immaculate, definitely lived in, but everything had its place. Everything he did was to make sure Anne had a safe place, a home when she was with him.

“Thanks, sweetie.” She shooed me out of the way, situating the tray how she liked it. Nostalgia filled my chest and I smiled. Scooping the cookies onto the wire rack she’d set out earlier, she asked, “Have you heard from your sister lately?”

“Not in a few weeks. Why, everything okay?”

“I’m not sure, she seemed down. She called me yesterday, said she might come home for Thanksgiving this year.” Mom saved two cookies for Marcos and put them on a plate. He’s always liked them fresh out of the oven, even if he ended up with a burnt tongue in the process. She glanced over at Marcos and lowered her voice. “I was thinking of doing the whole thing this year, bird and all…you think he’d come this time?”

“I could try, but you know how he is.”

“I know it’s not very Christ-like to say so, but his momma is an asshole, if you ask me. That boy is all light.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she stared at my friend. “It’s a shame, treating your blood that way.”

“He has you.”

“And you.” She handed me the plate. “Go make him smile, alright.”

Her chestnut hair was more gray than brown these days, her laugh lines more pronounced, but she looked the same to me. She was still the woman who’d given me everything. She was late nights when I couldn’t sleep, and warm milk. She was bandaged knees and tissues that wiped away tears. She was acceptance and love when I’d brought home a boy from school and told her I liked him better than girls. She was worry and hope when I left for the Air Force. She was heart and happiness, and a second mother to my friend who had none of the things I’d been lucky enough to have.

“You like him better than me,” I teased, and she swatted my arm.

“Well, when you say shit like that…”

“I told you she liked me better.” Marcos grinned at my mom as he took the plate out of my hand. “It’s okay, you can tell him, I’m much more fun.”

“Shut up and eat your cookies.” I gently smacked the back of his head, and he pinched my arm.

“You see how he treats me,” Marcos said around a mouth full of oatmeal and raisins. “At least now that he has a boyfriend I don’t have to—”

“Boyfriend?” Mom almost dropped the spatula in her hand. “Since when?”

“Shit.” Marcos cringed, but I could see the smile he’d failed to hide.

“Yeah… shit,” I said, giving him a murderous glare.

“Parker. What’s he talking about? You have a boyfriend?”

I sighed as I sat down at the kitchen table. What the fuck was I supposed to tell her?

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said and when she raised an eyebrow I added, “Technically.”

Her gaze bounced between Marcos and me. “What does that mean?”

“We’re dating, we haven’t labeled it. It’s only been about a month.”

“You never date anyone for a month. I mean, I have to say, I held hope you and Marcos one day…”

Marcos made a gagging sound and I kicked him under the table.

“Mom, he’s like my brother, that’s gross.”

“But dating your professor is just fine,” Marcos said under his breath and my eyes widened.

“Dating your what?” She was distracted, washing the cookie sheets, and I fucking hoped to God she hadn’t heard him. I didn’t feel like killing my best friend today.

“It’s nothing, Mom. If we get serious, I’ll let you know.”

I exhaled the breath I’d been holding when she nodded. “He must be special if you’ve kept him around this long. I love you, son, but you’re a bit of a player.”

I laughed openly and Marcos did too. “A player?” I asked. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’m not as naïve as you all like to think. You and your sister, both. If these walls could talk.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“Oh…” Marcos dragged out the word. “Do tell, Mrs. Mills.”

“Mom,” I cut her off as she opened her mouth to speak, and she laughed. “Can we change the subject?”

“I’d like to meet this guy.” She pointed the spatula at me. “It would be nice for once.”

“Yeah, Mom… Like I said, if things work out.”

That seemed to placate her, for now, but I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it until she’d actually met him. If that ever happened, I figured she never needed to know the details of how we’d met.

“They’ll work out,” Marcos said, stacking a few patterns together, he stuck them in his bag. “You’re practically in love with the guy already.”

“In love?” Mom asked, her tone filled with what could only be described as delight.

Fucking Marcos.

“I think it’s time for you to move out,” I said, and his head tipped back as he laughed.

“You wish, mijo.”

Right then, I really did.